Lavender Stains in the Doll Court
by lye tea
Summary: She is his dirty little secret. Steven/May, Riley/Dawn
1. Chapter 1

A man must be always on his guard, and jealousy can have the most unwelcome consequences. Murasaki was the perfect companion, a toy for him to play with.

—_Genji Monogatari _******  
**

**[1]**

They first met at the Pokémon World Tournament in Driftveil City, and neither had anticipated for anything more than a fleeting greeting, a fugacious farewell. It had happened completely by accident (sometime between a second cappuccino and the impending announcement of octofinals). Then, another slips by, and Riley sees him again.

His counterpart. The man with steel-flamed hair and glassy eyes. Tall and rigid, Steven Stone seems superhuman with the sun hanging low and behind. And as crimson collided with cerulean, plunging straight into the crisp ocean, Riley thought their encounter must be destined.

"Hello. Mr. Stone, was it?"

"Please, call me Steven."

"You're the Hoenn Champion. I remember seeing an interview about you and your Metagross."

"Former Champion. I relinquished the title several years ago in order to travel a bit."

"Ah, of course. It's been a while since I've had contact with the civilized world. I like to travel as well."

Steven offers a wry smile. "I would've expected no less from the grandson of the legendary Sir Aaron."

"So why aren't you competing in the tournament?"

"To be honest, I forgot that the tournament was taking place. I planned to come here to do some soul-searching," Steven pauses, remembering the last (disastrous) time he used those lines. "Besides, I haven't battled in a long time."

"Another coincidence. I'm not here to compete either."

"Your skills are quite well-known. There was speculation that you were preparing to take on the Sinnoh League."

"But that's just not me anymore," Riley mutters, echoing open the discomfort lodged in both their hearts.

...

The battles wage and waver without respite. Crowds storm the coliseum, cheering their favorite Trainers and stoking the fires for emergent nemeses. Even at night, there's no quietness, no solitude, to be found. Merchandise in all colors of the rainbow run amok through the streets. Venders and sellers haggle and bicker, stew and simmer, only to return for that overpriced collectible.

People from all over the world have come, some to gamble and play and others hoping to slash their names across the annals of history. There is money to be made and fame to claim. Unique and apart, they're the only spectators not caring to speculate.

Steven notices the commonality first (as is proper since he is a hairline older). While one is light and the other dark, that's where the differences cease. Riley descends from an extensive line of mining magnates. As for him, well, "Devon" (therefore _him_) is trademarked and stamped across every household appliance. They even share the same snobbishly fashionable, retroussé nose.

But—preening, Riley concludes: he is taller by an inch and has a more dashing smile. And his shoulders _are_ broader albeit by a microscopic breadth. So what if Steven has a slightly lower baritone? Or that even clouds bowed as he zipped past on his Skarmory?

This isn't a rivalry.

They're not after the same prize.

They are…friends, _comrades and confidents_.

So, only faintly begrudging, Riley invites Steven to dinner. He gives a lame excuse about wanting to celebrate the evening of the final battles and the finalization of picturesque sojourns. Together, their legends and names compose such the stuff of nightmares.

Steven toasts to that. It is so _excruciatingly_ rare to find a kindred soul, least of all one equally doomed.

...

May's voice sounds hollow when she calls that night. Worry seeps into him. Heavy and miserable like waterlogged linen weighing down a summer clothesline.

His immediate reaction is to fly back to Hoenn and see how she is, and then he remembers why he is here. Why she is there and they are apart.

She abruptly asks when he's coming home. There's some sort of trouble brewing and wondered if he could help, if it's not too much to ask? _'Cause this isn't a problem that'll resolve itself, and it's so bad, madly gone. Hurry, it's spinning fast. _

And so he, ever the gentleman, agrees, assuring her that he'll return in three days.

"Great. It's going to be okay, I know it will. Thank you, Steven."

Thousands of miles away, her smile radiates, electrifying them both.

...

When Dawn closes her eyes, nestled against him, she is a princess floating in white and pink. And when she awakes, dragons spew from her out, raging in an esoteric dance.

He absconded with her once and has since stashed her inside a castle hidden by rain-curtains and wind-dunes. Somewhere where even he can't remember, she waits for him eternally. So now, together, they conjure this misshapen, grotesque mess as hot-hot, choking love.

But Riley is beautiful and valorous and makes her heart jitter like a glass-bound moth. Like strips of lightning or a gold polka-dotted scarf, he is majestic yet fragile—a boy who fancied conquering the world. So she falls in love with him all over again and keeps falling, still waiting for the bottom to hit.

_Dear Dawn,_

_I'm sad to have missed your previous letter. I called the hotel, but they said they definitely did not receive it. No matter. I'll be home soon. I miss you. _

_—Riley _

Grinning wide, Dawn folds up the letter carefully and crawls into bed. Tonight, she will dream of shining princes and fluttering sleeves, of princesses and sesame ice cream. _Soon_, she'll see. As will he.

...

Steven stares at his newfound friend (opponent) and calculates how many moves it would take. How many wrong-steps and side-turns and über-underestimations he would suffer. Slyly, he watches Riley flicker his eyes. Their actions mirror. Impressed, Steven deduces that the cost would be far too great. And so, he continues with their pleasant charade for now.

Riley is aware that Steven is aware that he is aware and on and on their ouroboros, their game of chess. Neither dares to strike first (fearing the worst). In tension, they linger and fester, plotting and dawdling. Steven is wily but not invincible (no one is, not even _him_). Softly, nearly imperceptibly, Riley breaches their truce:

"I'll tell you about Dawn if you tell me about May."

* * *

**A/N: **This fic was inspired by Genji Monogatari. Steven/May and Riley/Dawn reminded me a lot of Genji and Murasaki. As much as I like Ironwillshipping and Hoennchampionshipping, I won't ignore the fact that Riley and Steven are significantly older than their respective counterparts. By about 15 years if we're going with game-verse. Even if you jump ahead in time, thus making the girls older, so that the romance appears more plausible, there will always be an element of creepiness.


	2. Chapter 2

It is indeed in many ways more comfortable to belong to that section of society whose action are not publicly canvassed and discussed.

—_Genji Monogatari_

**[2]**

Dawn greets him with a flourish of lanky limbs and maddening hugs. As he wraps his arms around her thin waist, he can't help but marvel at how beautiful and ingenuous she is. She smells of lavender and wisteria (inhaling deep, he also detects the elusive entrapment of white chocolate bonbons).

In purple-hearted socks, she stands barely as tall as his chest. Gazing up, she drowns him in tides of bright, blinding smiles. Agilely, Riley retreats so not to be burned in this incandescent sea. Releasing her, he wipes the smidge of flour that mars her cheek.

"Cooking?" he asks.

She shakes her head coyly, tugging at him to follow. "I was making glue."

"Glue," he repeats flatly.

Affronted, she spins around (catching him off-guard) to deliver her sermon. "Yes, Riley. Glue. I've been experimenting to find the finest, sturdiest glue."

"And how did this adventure arise?"

"Because you didn't have any glue, Riley," she states plainly. "It's a household necessity, like teakettles and ironing boards."

He chuckles, is amazed by her dauntless creativity and intrepid whims. Obediently, he trails after her to assess her perfect formula for glue. She is right: it's a household necessity.

_Something to bind together disparate parts—much like them. _

...

Roughly, he seizes strands of her moonlit hair. His fingers are long and skinny (almost emaciated) and obscured by night, they resemble spider-legs. She attempts to escape, but her effort proves futile (he is far too masterful at predicting her moves).

She looks at him with large, bewildered eyes as his hand skims down her back. Immediately, she remembers her disadvantage. It's not fair that he could read her—penetrate with consummate clarity—and she is left bereft in the shadows.

_Dawn_.

Cringing and squirming, she pulls away. But his grip is firm, tenacious, and he is strong. And she will lose, has resigned to that. With a sigh, she lets him drag her down. Deep into the muddied waters (the darkened sheets).

...

Iron Island is formidable and haunting and embraces them with sea-swept harrows accrued over centuries. As the boat prepares for docking, Dawn shivers against the brackish air. It's colder here, more desolate and beautiful than the visions of her memories.

She shrugs into her coat. Riley beams at her, holding tight onto his fedora as the winds thrash and assault its fine silken edges. And cheerfully, she returns the smile, entwining an arm with his. Pained, his face nearly looks: furrowed brows and a frown ghosting over.

"It's been a while," he says. "I forgot how peaceful it can be here. I stopped coming regularly after my father died."

"When was the last time you were back?"

Pausing, Riley turns to face her. "Since I met you."

Austere and deadpan like the final testimony of a eulogy.

Behind them erupts the low bellowing of a foghorn. A soft mist is rising, thick and impervious and closing in. Silently, she follows him down the narrow path, past the familiar, chipped rocks and gnarled pines. She starts counting the number of steps to reach the house waiting at the end.

...

He hates it here.

Hates that there is nothing left for him (but a goddamn legacy).

Hates that he's bound to this place, shackled by ties so bloody and visceral (can never break free).

He especially hates that she loves it here. With her tousled hair and buoyant grins, Dawn runs fast, ecstatic, frenzied. She skips over mountains and plunges unrestrained into waves. She can't thank him enough for bringing her here. And so, dejected, Riley grants her control over the island.

While she showers him with gifts of wildflowers and oddly shaped Moon Stones, he can scarcely recall why he came here. And then the phone rings (_Steven Stone_) and the reason crashes down all of a sudden and hard.

"Dawn, I apologize for not mentioning this earlier. A friend of mine will be joining us for dinner. Is that okay?"

...

It is eerie how similar they are. They brush their glasses with the same stifled grace and speak in the same soothing, distant tone. Even their suites unroll from identical cloth, sharply cut and unburdened by wrinkles and lint and the hazards of travelling.

The man introduced himself as Steven Stone. Amazed, Dawn struggles to believe that this is—was—the Champion of Hoenn.

_Hoenn_.

The name is so foreign and exotic on her tongue, invoking sweet, ripe fruits and white, empty beaches. The weather is hotter there than in Sinnoh. A cluster of islands atop foamy seas (not like the steely waters from which she sailed).

"I'm terribly sorry for imposing. I should've called earlier, but there was difficulty locating a stable signal up on Mt. Coronet."

"Not at all. So what brings you to Iron Island?"

"I was hoping to see some of the caves. I'm a collector of rare rocks. The last time I was here, your father was kind enough to show me some of the hidden caverns."

"Ah, of course. How could I forget? Right, in any case, I'd be happy to show you around. However—I must say your timing is less than impeccable this time—I'm here on business and my schedule is rather tight."

"Perhaps Dawn could act as my guide. If that's all right with you."

Surprised, Dawn glances from one man to the other. Whereas Steven's mouth is quirked into a slight, wry smile, Riley looks grim. Foreboding.

"I—I'd be glad to, Mr. Stone. But I've only been here once myself. I don't know I'll be of much help," she answers hesitantly.

"Please, call me Steven. And why don't we find out together?"

His small grin explodes into a Cheshire cat's. Across the table, Riley regards him with narrow, keen eyes (daring him to proceed).

Finally (both holding in breath) Dawn relents. "I suppose that'd be fine. Okay, I'd like that."

"Great. Thank you, Dawn. And thank you, Riley, for your hospitality."

Gritting his teeth, Riley nods.

Dinner continues.


End file.
